


Just Dance

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fiction, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-18
Updated: 2005-07-18
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Sorta AU, set in CA. Soemone is watching the Lone Dancer and longing.





	Just Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Just Dance

### Just Dance

#### by Griva

  


Just Dance 

Notes: rated R  
This is somewhat AU, set in CA. Because I wanted to write smthg different from the usual XF M/K G-man/hitman settings.  
Note: A Tinker's Damn is a real gay bar in Santa Klara. 

This is for Jynn, my beta and my best friend. 

* * *

I watched him. Every Saturday night, he came in. Every Saturday night, I came in. And every   
Saturday night, we left separately. He to his house or apartment, and I to mine. Yet, I continued   
to come to A Tinker's Damn with the hopes of meeting him. He always came in at the same   
time, 10pm on the dot. He'd dance on the dance floor alone, and whenever any man advanced,   
he'd simply maneuver away. It only made him more desirable to everyone, especially to me.

He would always be dressed to kill. His garb read Ralph Lauren or Club Monaco, and contrary to the guys in clashing reds and stripes, mesh-shirts and hotpants, he would wear same polished, dark color palette that made his refined features stand out. His obviously salon-cut hair was short, apart from the strays on his forehead that were flowing whenever he swirled and bumped in time with the rhythm and my heart. His long, subtly muscular arms rippled within the shirt that was unbuttoned at the throat, and a slight bulge beckoned from his black CKs. He never glanced my way, though my eyes never left him. 

I wouldn't even dance, though I used to some time ago. My body remained planted safely on a stool near the bar. I'd inhale vodka by the double shot, succumb to my lustful thoughts, adding myself into that space he kept empty, and afterwards find myself at home, releasing my angst down the drain, as he felt my lathered body. Then I'd return to the monotony of a checker for Albertson's. It's my store, after all. After Spark aka Albert RIP Adams finally has broken his 38 years old neck overspeeding on his Harley and left me a rather profitable venture, a collection of bandanas fit for all occasions and hardly a broken heart. He never said that he wanted to be with me forever, and I'd never fancied that. 

But he seemed to have taken good care of me not needing to sale my ass, having made me his sole inheritor. So I found myself in the comfort of Santa Klara, where fat snobs demanded their service, and artificially "beautiful" smug women expected my heterosexual response, calling me Russian Adonis and cat-eyes. Both left disappointed. 

Again, Saturday night. Again my desire perused the contours of his innermost thoughts. I speculated and investigated, but solo, as ten dollars worth of alcohol became fifty. 

/Why is he so hard to get?/   
/How could I ever hope to get him?/   
/Does he have a boyfriend? Is he a closet case? Would he let me top him?/ /Am I too old or too young or too tall for him?/ /Is he just a tease?/   
Questions, questions, questions. But never answers... 

* * *

"Hello and welcome to Albertson's. Can I take your club card?" 

"Here you go, sonny." 

God forbid, mommy. Scanning the bloated, pearls and Versace wearing dinosaur's card, I ran her items through. Pantyhose, Oreo cookies, ice-cream, bread, condoms... 

/Great. Everyone's getting action except me,/ I thought to myself, as I continued. Suddenly having a couple of regular fucks with adoring and adorable clubbers in the backroom was not a good enough get off for me. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a flash of a familiar prominent profile. My attention divided, I was brought back by the complaint of the seventy year old artifact within my line. 

"You scanned several items twice, you idiot!" 

Shocked, I stared at the screen. Three times, I ran her Chamomile Tea, and twice her English Muffins. Correcting the mistake, I took her credit card, finished the transaction and returned to my visual search. It being eleven at night, I had more than hope that he'd come to my lane. I was the only one open, after all. And wide open. 

Again, the familiar stranger flew past my peripheral. Again, I moved too late to clearly match him with my line of sight. A twenty five year old skinny punk, in a Cobain lives stained tee, possibly a drug addict, approached me and inquired, "Do you know where Cheerios are, dude?" 

"Aisle seven... dude." 

He gave me a dirty look before proceeding to the aisle specified. I returned to my search but was again interrupted by a voice. 

"Is this line closed?" 

I turned my head to see none other than him. The beauteous Lone Dancer himself. He wore a suit that fit only like ones tailor-made fit. His odd purple tie with dark green squares was a slack noose on his neck. He looked worn-out, even drowsy. No wonder, if he had to wear his suitarmor all sweltering day. His short hair was plastered down over his perfectly proportional head, adjacent to his slender, sexy neck. His chest and flat stomach were hidden by the dark blue jacket, but I had my mind's ability to envision them. Yet, his amazingly proportional shoulders still flowed past my hungry irises. Allowing my eyes to search his, I found the hazel too intense and weird and looked away. 

"Of course not, ... sir." 

/Sir?/ I never called _sir_ anyone but my long time dead, and deservedly so, offal of a step-father. 

I cleared my throat, due to the previous sentence's higher toned feature. He only smiled, and his eyes seemed to have been surprised by his own smile at my address. But - oh! - what a smile it was. Even white teeth set straight as the gates of heaven, contained within lips, pink with life. I held together, though internally, I melted into swirls of yearning. His items were few. His attributes were not. 

If he paid by card, I'd be lucky to learn his name. I noticed how he put a 50 bill on the counter and how long, slender and well-kept his hands were. The pause was sticky and awkward. Without another word, I rang up his groceries, took his money, returned the change, and watched him leave. Even his firm rear end proudly boasted the divine hand of God, as it shifted within the pants with each step. To my surprise, I was drooling. And in front of me stood the punk from earlier. In silence, I rung his order and ignored his muttering "faggot" on the way out. Boys will be boys. Or like them... 

Again, Saturday. Around eleven, I remained at my perch, close at hand to the bartender, who was cute in his own way and he was one of the best cock-suckers on the block. I was wont to fuck him once or twice per month, and he still entertained hopes of us going steady eventually. But a blonde mane and blue eyes suddenly had stopped having an effect on me. He handed me another double shot of vodka, giving me a playful eye, all in vain as unknown lover danced away the night. His body expressed itself in ways James Joyce could never hope to. I longed for the opportunity I had blown days previous. For that chance to justify a conversation. The opportunity to experience a memory with the subject of countless fantasies, whilst naked, covered in soap and lonely. 

Then for once, it happened. His eyes turned to me, and we locked. Recognition graced his chiseled face, memory his piercing eyes. And he smiled. I froze, not able to do so much as lift my cheekbones. He returned to his solo escapades, and I to my drink. Not another glance. Not another look. Life returned to normal, and by the time I was in my car, my right hand was in my pants. Then history repeated, me curled on my bed and clutching at the cool bed-sheets. 

I saw him at the store again, that week. Again, Wednesday at eleven at night. I noticed his car wasn't posh, but rather looked like a rental. A simple Ford Taurus. I expected him to be a man of rank, wasn't he? I wondered what he could be doing for a living. Ready to murder anyone who'd claim him for their kept man. 

Again, he bought a pack of Cherry Cola and pre-cooked food, toiletry items and no conversation. This cat and mouse game bore deep into my brain, begging for some response. Obviously, if it were up to me, nothing would happen. Yet, he refused to make more of a move than to ask if the line was open. Other than that, no other conversational piece joined us together for even the slightest interaction. 

But that Saturday, he glanced over at me and smiled for the second time. Unlike previous, I was able to blush. Progress, some would say. That night, he joined my fantasies of making love on my balcony. That is, until my snoopy neighbor yelled obscenities at me. Lately he seemed to have been spying on me, I swear, wearing only his baggy boxers. Old perv. I finished in the shower, and then there followed one more session in my bed. 

The third week, my determination swelled more than my libido. When he placed his items on my check stand and positioned himself in front of me, I noticed his eyes linger on my arms in the sleeveless shirt. Or rather on the stylized dragon tattoo I had on my left shoulder. I did it for Spike. Just yesterday thought of lasering it off...but if it magneted his eyes... 

So I took my opportunity. No one followed him in line. 

"I've seen you at the club a few times." 

He turned his head, holding soft hair and an elegant visage, his luscious lips came apart, and he met my eyes with his. 

"Yeah," he responded, not wavering in voice or stare. "You're always at the bar, sucking down vodka." 

/I'd like to suck you down,/ I thought to myself. 

"Just haven't the desire to dance," was my vocal response. 

"And why's that?" 

"No partners that appeal to me." 

Smiling, he responded in a calm tone, "Who needs a partner?" 

Grabbing his bag, he made for the exit, spinning around briefly to finish, "Just dance." 

And he left. Alone at the check stand, I contemplated his words. "Just dance?" 

I felt as dumb as a 6 year old. I'm almost 5 times older. 

Hell and Jesus on a crutch, maybe that would help to get rid of my insomnia and sticky sheets if I tried? 

Moving around on the dance floor, I felt awkward at first. But after a while, I felt at ease and able to conquer the world. For song after song, I swayed my arms, jiggled my feet, and lost myself in the music. So much so, I never caught sight of my high-bread beau as he slipped up to me and danced in front of me. Around the club, eyes focused on us, dancing in unison, parallel in movement and thought. Head spinning, almost delirious with joy, I caught up, grabbed his waist and pulled him closer. 

Then I whispered in his ear, "I think I love you." When I finally get bold, I certainly get bold. And I have been waiting forever to tell him this. 

Prodigy's jerky deafening rhythm faded out as I waited for his reaction. 

"I wish I felt the same," was his hushed reply. For a second he had a mortally wounded look. 

I was stunned as his eyes reflected the jumping lights, but he held me closer, his arm around my neck, while I dared to put both of mine around his waist, and he uttered softly, "I'm not gay." 

Mist frothed my eyes, as I contained my surprise, misery, and anger. "What are you _doing_ here?" 

"I have a self esteem problem." 

" _What_!" I barely noticed I yelled it out loud. 

All eyebrows raised, when my consternation showed in one syllable. He shushed me, giving me a gentle squeeze. I felt his fingers burn through the skin on my nape. 

"I don't like to dance around girls, but I love to dance. This seemed the best option." 

It all connected. He never danced with men. He was beautiful, but he never brought a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend for that matter. 

"Where's your girlfriend?" 

"Despite what you think, not all good looking men are attached. And I prefer to be alone." 

I allowed a single tear to drift on the wings of gravity and sorrow from my face, landing lightly on his palm that rested on my shoulder. He allowed his grip to slip enough to face me. His kind eyes fell at my despair. He wiped the tear with his hand, fingertips soft on my cheek and jaw and held me again and whispered, 

"Of any man I've ever known, I wish I could love you as a friend." 

My chest felt compressed, due to a shrinking heart. My breathing grew heavy, and my head burned from massive self-deprecation. His offer sounded exclusive, but I knew that would drive me insane if I consented to be his friend. 

"Such love is not enough," I voiced faintly, before slipping from his tender embrace. I didn't dare to turn and meet his eyes, for I knew I would be ready for anything if only he'd beacon at this moment, but tomorrow, in the daylight I'd never be able to kill my desire for him. 

Exiting Tinker's Damn, elbowing the grinning and sympathetic by-standers, I wished I'd have never spoken or even laid eyes upon a love I had not even the pleasure of knowing the name of. I didn't believe in love at first sight and intended to forget him. The quicker the better, for my own good. 

I know he was there one more time, the next Saturday. Right the day when my shop got robbed. It was the drunk Cheerios-buying Cobain's fan, who did it because _God hated faggots_. I spent half the night at the police station, four cops eyeing me and at least one giving me a friendly, if not interested, eye. 

Mike the bartender told me afterwards that my stranger danced only twice, then sat on the barstool I usually occupied and said nothing, eyeing the jumping crowd. Had a single straight scotch, left a very generous tip and soon went away. For good. 

Very well. No one dies of a broken heart. At least I did not. 

Weeks later, I sat against the bar, imbibing the fourth double shot of the night, continually staring at the floor. I would not have come, but because Mike asked me some advice regarding cash register malfunction. And for the music. It was Blues Night, damn it. It held sway to my better notions and caressed me through my melancholy. 

/Just dance./ 

I struggled, momentarily. My heart grasped the concept, however and demanded of my mind and body complete cooperation. I set down my double shot of vodka and stood, followed by Mike's concerned gaze. I moved out to the dance floor, slowly but surely easing into the wave of passion that music prompts. And whenever any men directed themselves toward me to join in my zealous ballet, I skillfully maneuvered from them. 

"Who needs a partner?" I mused, internally. "Just dance." 

/end  
July 18th, 2005   
  

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Griva


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